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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737166">Twenty-Five (or Twenty-Six)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernloch/pseuds/Fernloch'>Fernloch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Picard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And the writers are evil for killing Hugh, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death Fix, Fanon of how Liberated Borg can work, Fix-It, Gen, The Borg, The disordered xBs are actually wholesome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:02:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernloch/pseuds/Fernloch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The realisation hit when the group rounded a corner only to find the director’s stricken form; body too cold and skin too pale, even for a Borg. A collective gasp echoed from the group. This was what was wrong. </p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The disordered Romulan xBs discover Hugh and know that they have to help.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Star Trek Fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Twenty-Five (or Twenty-Six)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The disordered Liberated Borg survive the crash.</p>
<p>It was surprising, really – the sensation of still being alive and intact after such a drop. Borg cybernetics likely contributed, holding them together in one piece despite the Artifact’s rapid plummet to the surface of the planet. It was a feeling that they are used to; travelling through transwarp conduits felt the same. Weightlessness, infinity, like you are made of nothing – and then the drop would hit you, sending you plummeting. It was sickening every time.</p>
<p>You. Imagine being able to use the word ‘you.’</p>
<p>Some of them have managed it. Some of them are ‘you’ or ‘I.’ Too many of them are still ‘we.’ Individuality is difficult. Borg group into units, integrated into smaller fractions of a much larger collective. It ensures that they can be organised at all times. The unit of the disordered was one of the largest – a group of twenty-five – organised together not in order to co-ordinate their work but to group them off from the rest of the collective as too much information came rushing in.</p>
<p>First of Twenty-Five brought the information. It was all stored inside her head. A historian and mythologist constantly in search of the truth; finding out the reality of Ganmadan had always been a dream. They, we, she had discovered the truth and brought it with her when the collective assimilated their ship. The Borg had not liked it. The weight of such a truth had brought them harm; more harm than had been done to the collective in far too long a time. The cube had to be destroyed, the unit had to go with it; and so the disordered lay separate from the others.</p>
<p>The unit had remained together ever since – through assimilation and liberation alike. If one was hauled off to have cybernetics removed then the others would follow, tetchy and unwilling to let their friend go. Despite being severed from the collective that link was still there; a constant cacophony of radio chatter inside one another’s heads, feeding back from each other and meaning that their thoughts were always shared. The unit had broken the Borg. The unit were broken themselves, plagued by images of a future or a past or whatever it was that haunted the depths of their minds. The unit were inseparable, stronger together; the weight of their anguish holding them close.</p>
<p>First of Twenty-Five had been taken away from them recently. The first thing that the group did upon surviving the crash was re-count their numbers and find that she was the only one missing. They wanted her back. First of Twenty-Five was called Ramdha, and Ramdha was hurt. It did not take much for the unit to break out of the Grey Zone with the power fluctuating and no Romulan guards to hold them back. They could be coherent when needs be; when they were together, when they were being drawn to one another. Stronger together, stronger as a unit, stronger as one. First of Twenty-Five was finally conscious – they could hear it, hear her frantic thoughts and the terror of being alone. Alone did not bring support. Alone was wrong.</p>
<p>Twelve of Twenty-Five had rather strong tubules, well known for stabbing them into a sponge as some sort of method of stimming. Strong tubules were slid into the gaps between the doors to the medical bay, and then strong hands were used to pry the doors open. First of Twenty-Five had looked entirely haggard, exhausted; but had taken a step closer to the group awaiting her as their leader. Cohesion kicked in. When they were all together it was okay. It was something that the Romulans working on the project had not realised. Keep them separate and they would not function. Noises and textures and lights would cause a sensory overload. Together? Together they could hear one another’s thoughts. Everything was discussed mentally; every action was understood before it was carried out. Their link to the larger collective had been severed but you could not sever this one. It made them whole.</p>
<p>The unit had felt whole again but something was still wrong. The gnawing sense of loneliness still lingered despite another headcount; one through twenty-five. Something was still missing, something that they could not place. It was not one of them but it was something dear to them, something which could not be ignored, something which had to be fixed. That sensation had driven them on. First, Second, and Third of Twenty-Five looked like teachers taking their pupils on an outing as they walked through the corridors, some wringing their hands, some muttering to themselves, but all the more coherent because they were all here. Looks from the other liberated Borg were given to the group but they did not care. No one cared for the disordered of the Shaenor. No one other than…</p>
<p>Hugh. Third of Five.</p>
<p>The realisation hit when the group rounded a corner only to find the director’s stricken form; body too cold and skin too pale, even for a Borg. A collective gasp echoed from the group. This was what was wrong. Third of Five was not one of their number. He was not one that made them complete, he was not essential… But he had helped. He tried to make the disordered whole again. He was one of the few who listened to them, who considered them, who wanted to help them… And they had felt his signature be extinguished, a tiny blip in the remainders of a collective held together by fragments of cybernetics – a tiny blip going out.</p>
<p>Was it too late? Was the general question, conveyed in hushed whispers and mental transmissions. First of Twenty-Five – no, Ramdha, Hugh had given her name back and they or she knew her name was Ramdha – had stood frozen, eyes welling up with tears as she regarded the scene before her. Almost immediately everybody else ended up the same. Was it too late? Perhaps – but perhaps not. Twenty-One of Twenty-Five had been a doctor and he knew that their own cybernetics could keep a person alive. Perhaps it could stop them from decaying. Was it too late? Maybe – but they could try.</p>
<p>Numerous hands reached under the figure’s prone form to right him again. They carried him with a surprising gentleness, a grace that would not be expected of those deemed as ‘disordered.’ Of course they were gentle. He was not one of them but he was still one of them. He was… If they had another number, and he did not already have a designation, then he would easily have been accepted as one of their Twenty-Six.</p>
<p>Alcoves lined numerous walls. It did not take long to find an unoccupied one, setting the director in it with care, ensuring that his head was back upon the panel and then manually wiring him in to ensure the swiftest connection. It would give him the best chance of life. With green lighting from the alcove illuminating the director’s face in some sort of eerie glow they had waited – staring to begin with, watching and waiting as seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. They counted. Counted helped keep them grounded; counting to twenty-five, counting the tiles on a wall, counting the guards in a room. They did not usually count for this long, though. Counting soon became a chore instead of something grounding. This counting was taking too long.</p>
<p>Be patient, First of Twenty-Five reminded them, still haggard and tired but determined to look after her group. First would have never made a good leader. She was too nice, like a mother to them instead. The unit had ended up turned around like an honour guard, surrounding the alcove so no harm came of it or of the occupant within. Minutes ticked on. Hours ticked on. The disordered did not know how long they had been there, losing count and trying their hardest to remain focussed and grounded and safe.</p>
<p>They did not see the image behind them; the wound from the blade being knitted back together by nanoprobes, the stiffness leaving the director’s limbs, the colour returning to his face. They felt it, though; like a spark of life through the vague link which still connected the Borg. They felt the life signature jolt back in; the one that they had been waiting for, the one that helped them.</p>
<p>Twenty-Five beings had turned in unison to look as the director blinked, seemingly groggy and gaze hazy, facial expression twisted into a grimace to begin with at the sensation of being connected to the alcove… Then one of confusion… Then one of relief. There he was - <em>alive. </em></p>
<p>Hugh.</p>
<p>Third of Five.</p>
<p>Their director -</p>
<p>- And one of their Twenty-Six.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's been far too long since I've posted something on here. I know that Borg canon fluctuates and varies depending on where you read, but I like the idea that no matter if you are liberated or not you are still connected in some way - like how Picard could hear the radio chatter of the collective in First Contact. I love the Borg, I love the Romulans - it's like the writers on Picard knew!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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